Summer Nights
by CSIBritfan
Summary: Greased Lightnin is up. This was just begging to be written. Nick, Warrick and Greg try to put Nicky's car together again following Rashomama. Made me giggle hope you do too. No GSR in Ch4!
1. Summer Nights

**SUMMER NIGHTS**

_**It turned colder, that's where it ends  
So I told her we'd still be friends  
Then we made our true love vow  
Wonder what she's doin' now  
Summer dreams ripped at the seams,  
But oh, those summer nights**_

The summer of '92 was a hot one. In every sense. The beach in San Francisco was packed with students, visitors, locals and a 30 something, greying, crime scene investigator and lecturer, from Las Vegas. He was a visiting academic at the University. Forensic Science and Entomology. Not a very sexy thing to do for the average person on the street, but outrageously so to a student on the course. She was a physics graduate, an intern at SFPD, doing work experience in the Crime Lab. She wanted to be a CSI. She wanted to learn from the best, so she enrolled on the Summer School.

He was always being offered the chance to teach, but his work on the anti social graveyard shift kept him busy. He had a new CSI to mentor. A precocious talent by the name of Catherine Willows – a former exotic dancer, if you please. However, she had pleasantly surprised him with her ability and tenacity. She could work solo and Jim Brass would have to do some work now as Crime Lab Unit supervisor.

But every now and again, Gil Grissom felt claustrophobic, cocooned in the envelope of darkness in which he had to live. Dark, cold and nocturnal. Sometimes, he felt the need to spread his wings and fly towards the sun. But, like Icarus, on this occasion, he would fly too far and be burned. Badly burned.

Lectures were over, and Grissom was walking, bare footed, in the warm, dry sand of a secluded little beach path he had been pointed towards by colleagues. He liked off the beaten track. It suited his personality. He liked to be drawn into his thoughts, individual and isolated as they were. But he found they were getting invaded, more and more, by a young woman who sat left middle of the third row, day in day out, for the last three weeks.

He'd never been distracted in his work before. He was razor sharp. He was known for his attention to the finest details. The minutia of evidence often told the biggest of tales. He worked in tiny details and intricate, little observations. But he couldn't shake her from his head. Tall, wavy brown hair, killer grin and she hung onto his every word. And he was so flattered by the attention. He was embarrassed to admit it to himself - he was becoming a flirt.

The bay side breeze flapped around his unbuttoned shirt, the warm air caressing his toned, naked chest with gentle kisses. His jeans were rolled up to mid shin. The stubble he was sporting was indicative of his freedom. He wasn't at work, so he didn't have to shave. Appearances didn't matter to students. Scruffy was so in. He could just hang out, let himself go… and she loved to tease her fingers over the scratchy contours of his cheek and jaw line. He kind of liked it too. Intimate and gentle. What was he doing? But it was all too late… his wings were getting scorched.

The dune which caught his attention beckoned for him to recline on it. The orange glow of the afternoon sun spread along its surface like a blanket. He lowered himself down and leaned back onto the sand pile. He absent-mindedly grazed his fingers over the clearly defined musculature of his stomach as he looked to the sun setting colours of the sky, propping his head up to be able to see the famous bay. Ah, the summer of '92. He was going to remember it for such a long time.

The 'Ha!' that resonated from his chest stopped the gulls in their tracks, quickly forcing a change in their circular swooping direction. His grin was as wide as the bay itself, his giggle endearing, as he beat his feet up and down on the dull sounding sand.

He recalled the previous afternoon, playing it over like a feature film in his analytical mind.

_He'd made the move. Strangely, it hadn't made him feel like a dirty old man picking up a young woman to boost his departing ego. It felt, well, right. He'd asked her to wait after the lecture. He had something he wanted to ask her. As the students filed out one way, Sara Sidle made her way down the three rows to stand at the side of his podium. She watched him as he cleared up the remnants of a session based around the time line blow flies could offer in solving a murder case. Each little larva, pupae, blowfly was individually crucified onto the Styrofoam board, each delicately labelled in a bold, cursive, yet sensitive, script. She stooped in for a closer inspection as he turned round and his groin made contact with the tip of her nose. They both giggled out of embarrassment, not able to make eye contact. Slowly, Sara straightened up._

'_Would you like to go for afternoon tea at the coffee shop again?' she asked. Her hopeful look tweaked in Grissom's psyche. She wanted him bad, and it was absolutely reciprocated._

'_Nope.' He answered, honestly. He finished packing away, just in time to see a freaked out expression cross her face. He exhaled. 'Let me clarify, I don't want to go for afternoon tea. I'd like to take you to the beach. Well, I mean for a walk on the beach.' _

_With that, he reached out and touched her pouting lips with his thumb tip. The electricity they created short circuited the whole of the West Coast. Both their stomachs belly flopped and flipped over. He took her hand and silently escorted her out of the emergency exit towards the car park._

_Each carried a huge cup of ice cold drink as they made their way to his quiet scenic walk. He had planned the whole of this moment. Without looking at her, or saying a word, his free hand snaked the distance between them and took a hold of her fingers. She didn't look at him or say a word as she pulled his fingers into her grip, criss-crossing their fingers into an intricate lattice. He pulled her closer to him. A wisp of a smile covered their lips before ghosting away again. Holding her hand, they weaved their way through the sand dunes. Something was going to happen. And it was going to be big. It could consume them. _

_Grissom's wings were getting nearer and nearer to going up in flames._

_He seated them down, putting his jumper on the ground for them to sit on. He sat down, and pulled Sara onto him. She snuggled into his embrace and sat in serene peace. Gratified with this scenario, the last thing she expected was a strong hand gliding so slowly up, under her vest top. She started to move to look at him, but was persuaded to remain where she was by a tiny nibble on her ear. She sighed in pleasure, and leaned in to him further to allow greater access and contact. He remained focused on her skin around her ribs and stomach, with the butterfly movements of his fingertips causing the strongest urges within her. Her eyes were closed and her mouth dry as he grazed, teased, caressed, stroked her middle. _

'_Are you OK? With this?' he barely whispered, a finger going a little higher than appropriate for public display._

_All she could manage was a sigh of pleasure, as she turned around in his arms and, with eyes still closed, gently touched his lips to hers. It was such a soft connection, it was barely there, but it enticed Grissom. He slipped down to lie on his back as she took her turn to torture him with the most seductive of touches. The kiss remained slow and agonisingly erotic as her hand made its way over the cotton of his shirt, firmly skimming waist to shoulders, pausing only occasionally to pop a button open and slide her hand on to his body, tracing patterns on his soft, warm sun kissed skin. _

_She peeled her lips from his and laid her head on his bare, exposed chest. Grissom was a goner. He had fallen and he had fallen hard. As she began to plant deft little kisses on his pecs, he had to force himself to speak._

'_Sara… please, stop. I can't take any more without taking you here, and I don't want to do that… Please, I'm begging you, stop…'_

_She smiled up at him. Her grin was of evil proportions. But she knew no meant no, just as much for a man as for a woman. She winked, stopped and went back to snuggling against him, her arm draped across him as his chest rose and fell heavily while he tried to calm himself. His arms spread across the dune as he fought to regain his composure his open shirt crumpling either side of his ribcage. _

As he lay alone, back on that sand dune, his shirt open, his grin fixed, he knew he was in love and, tonight, he was going to tell Sara how much.

He picked himself up and ran his hands briskly down the backs of his legs and over his backside to knock loose any clinging sand. He had to get ready. His mind was made up. Tonight, he was going to take it that one step further, in the privacy of his own hotel room, on the comfortable expanse of a king size bed. He was going to make Sara Sidle his.

And he did.

Exhausted yet energised, they lay all over each other, arms and legs entangled in the remains of bed sheets, a fine sheen of perspiration adorning their bodies. Sara was the first to be able to speak coherently, and her words were the last he expected to hear that night.

'You need something to remember me by,' she whispered, 'I think that was it.'

Grissom's head shot up so fast, Sara fell from his chest.

'What? What do you mean?' he quizzed, his eyebrow arched.

'When you go back to Vegas. You'll need something to remember me by,' she clarified.

'But I thought,' he stammered, 'I thought you'd be coming back with me…' Alarm was etched on his face and screaming in his ears. 'Don't you want that too?'

Sara sat up beside him, the gap between them the size of an ocean.

'I'm not going to Vegas with you,' she smiled calmly. 'My life is here. Yours is there. This was…'

'A holiday romance?!'

'No!' she forcefully told him. 'It's more than that and you know it, but this isn't real life. Nine to five, day in day out. As the summer ends, so must this. You have to realise that. The Dr Gil Grissom I am here with now isn't the same one I would have in Las Vegas. You told me yourself you work silly hours, in darkness, in a city which has the word 'sin' in its nickname. You would become serious and focused. Here, you are care free, a reincarnation of yourself, the you that YOU want to be…'

Her words slapped his face, crushed his heart but made sense in his head. He chewed over them.

'This is where I say we could still be friends, isn't it?'

'Yes,' she nodded, slipping back into his arms. 'But we can be friends when you leave, if you'd like that, and we can be lovers now…'

He smiled at her. How could she be so young and yet so sensible and mature? Single minded and independent? She stretched her arm behind her head, offering him a sight he would dream about for the next fifteen years.

Gil Grissom had flown too close to the sun. His wings were burned away. It would be a long time before he flew again.


	2. There Are Worse Things I Could Do

_**AN – this is my first attempt at writing for Catherine Willows. I had help with her back history from GGgirl on Talk CSI. Cheers, chuck. Anything I got wrong is totally down to me… Cath isn't Grissom, so I haven't taken much notice… Hee Hee!! But this sort of fitted in the mini series. Hope you like. A review would be nice if you have the time…**_

**__**

**_Disclaimer - I have no ownership of these lovely people. Sad, but true..._**

_**CSI Britfan xxx**_

**  
THERE ARE WORSE THINGS I COULD DO…**

_I could flirt with all the guys,_

_Smile at them and bat my eyes.  
Press against them when we dance,  
Make them think they stand a chance  
and then refuse to see it through,  
that's the thing I'd never do…_

…_I could hurt someone like me, out of spite or jealousy,  
I don't steal and I don't lie, but I can feel and I cry  
In fact I'll bet you never knew, but to cry in front of you,  
that's the worse thing I could do._

'Don't go near her,' some youth whispered, 'that's Sam Braun's daughter…'

'No he is NOT,' insisted a young Catherine Flynn, 'just because he is sleeping with my mother, does **not** make him my father!'

She threw her head back, knocking wisps of strawberry blond hair out of her eyes. She threw her drink, full force, into the boy's face and stormed out of the party. She walked and walked and walked, anger navigating her direction, until she found herself on Fremont Street. Sam Braun owned most of it. Most of Vegas come to think of it.

Damn that man! Sam Braun was a spectre, hovering around the fringes of her life. He was a gangster – the epitome of Old Vegas, the Rat Pack, the Mob and Sinatra. But her mother insisted on having him around. In her bed. Not all the time, but sporadically. That made it worse. He would turn up like an old penny – and ruin both their lives. Promises, to keep her sweet, only for him to disappear again as quickly as he'd arrive. She was talked about all the time. Boys wouldn't go near her because her mum was getting some from a mobster. She was sweet sixteen, sweet apple pie and she wanted her own action. The shadow of the Braun stood in her way. He was over protective – just because he was slipping her mother one whenever he wanted it, leaving her mother in tears as he scuttled off into the night and into the arms of another nubile, bimbo.

As if on cue, Braun walked out of his casino, The Rampart. It was now or never. She ran towards him, not thinking what to say. Now was for actions. Thinking was for later.

'Catherine,' started Braun, his eyes wide as he saw the anger flushing her face.

'Stay away from us!' she screamed. 'Stay away! I hate you! You ruin everything!'

She couldn't say why or where the strength came from, but she hit him. Hard. Arms flailing, she threw herself at him, kicking, hitting, spitting, screaming.

It took one stinging slap. Right across her cheek. That was the moment. That was when a sixteen year old Catherine Flynn knew she would always be the loser with men. It cast the die for her to pick up the wrong men, get sucked in by them, pushed around by them, beaten by them, used by them, dumped by them.

That was until she met Gil Grissom, her supervisor at the Las Vegas Police Department Crime Scene Investigation Unit.

She had spent her twenties working as an exotic dancer. She hated the expression, 'stripper.' That suggested she actually removed her clothes for a living. But she didn't. She just didn't wear them to start with. She was a dancer. Pole dancer, lap dancer. But it put money, good money, in her pocket and food on the table for her and her husband, Eddie Willows.

Oh, how she had fallen for him. He'd been at a stag night at the club she worked. He wasn't like the others, grabbing, letching, squeezing and trying to pinch her ass. He stood back and watched her, as she sculpted herself into beautiful shapes and angles, her supple movements mesmerising him as he watched and tipped her for making eye contact with him, dancing just for him. He was a dreamer. He was desperate for his own slice of the American Dream, - wheeling and dealing, ducking and diving. He was unable to hold down a laborious, fulltime job. So she was the provider. Until she found out she was pregnant. Eventually, decisions had to made. And being a good Catholic girl, marrying Eddie was the first.

'I can't do it any more, Eddie,' she reasoned with him one night. 'I can't put myself out there every night.'

'What the hell are ya gonna do then?' he sneered, 'shaking your ass for a stranger is all you are good at.'

'I enrolled at UNLV. Sciences. I've been talking to a guy after work. I've been talking to a lot of law enforcement officers. At the French Palace. He works at Criminalistics. He says I'd be good at it. Make something more of myself, despite the good living I've enjoyed dancing. Something more sensible for a providing parent. So, I thought I'd give it a go. You are gonna have to support me and the baby now. No more dreams and schemes. Go out there and get a damned job.'

He lurched towards the door.

'Whatever, sweet cheeks.' He yanked the door open. 'Go play college princess. I'm gonna a bar.'

With a slam of the door he was gone. And Catherine was alone. She silently wept on her pillow for the first of many occasions.

She became a professional woman, a criminalist, working for the city, solving murders, making the streets safe for her family. Ironically, her family covered the whole moral spectrum of Las Vegas – the innocence of a young baby compared to the brutality of her husband and the power of the hoodlum that was Sam Braun. She reconciled herself that she was not his daughter. That helped her cope with him. He had long since dumped her mother for a girl nearer Catherine's age, and she had softened towards him. He had looked after her on the dance circuit, like her minder – but she was not naïve. She knew his business, and that business was shady at best.

Things were looking up at work too. She had found a job on the nightshift. It gave her time with the tiny infant Lindsey, before her sister arrived. Then Cath would go out and do it all over again. She was not adverse to hard work, and she was relishing her new position, working under an eccentric and quirky criminologist by the name of Gil Grissom. He collected things. Dead things. Not content with that, he put them in jars and displayed them in his office. If he were not her boss, he would have been definite serial killer material - minus the malice. The foetal pig weirded her out, even now.

There was something gentle and charming about her new boss. He was charismatic for sure, with twinkling blue eyes, a cheeky little smile and a butt to die for. He was well groomed and meticulously turned out. He was such a gentleman, for the first few weeks of working with him, she thought he was gay. He was nothing like the men in her life up to that point. He said please and thank you. He treated her like a human being worthy of his respect. He would wink at her when she made a correct link between crime scene, victim and suspect – The Holy Trinity, he called it. He would give her that knee weakening grin, like a lopsided sort of grin, that turned her to jelly. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

She gained a reputation for not taking fools gladly. Jim Brass had watched her in awe as she captured suspect after suspect; overwhelming them with evidence after evidence after evidence. She picked up the cold cases and cracked them within a few shifts. Jim Brass begrudgingly accepted Grissom's assessment of her skills. It was hard to impress the Unit Supervisor.

It was a case of out with the old and in with the new. After many false starts when he convinced her he would change for the better, Eddie was thrown out, like the stinking pile of garbage that he was, the night she came home early and found him - in her bed - with another woman. She and her daughter deserved better. She didn't have to put up with his womanising and lies any more. She saw how low he would stoop – trying to re-mortgage the house from under her, ringing Social Services about her inability to look after Lindsay. As if he was going to get away with that! Worst of all, Eddie was the one who accused her of cheating on him, with Grissom, when he himself was the straying one. Her relationship with Gil had always been one of trust, respect and friendship.

Her work life was good. Over time, she became Grissom's second in command. He trusted her. They worked numerous cases over the years. She welcomed Holly Gribbs. She persuaded her to stay the rest of her first shift. Within a few hours she was combing her dead body for the DNA of her attacker, bitterly regretting that her powers of persuasion had been so effective that day. She told a husband his wife was having an affair, only for Grissom to prove the death of the wife had been an accident, not a crime committed by her lover. The husband killed his wife's lover. That was not an accident. She was being ruled by her heart, not her head. She walked in another man's shoes too often. It all boiled down to one thing. Men.

She grieved for her daughter, not Eddie, when he was killed. She couldn't accept Sara did her best. She was angry at her for not trying hard enough, though all avenues were traversed. She was angry at Eddie dying. He had let them down again. He may have been a violent husband and a lousy father to Lindsey, but he was still her father. Then there was her own father. Sam Bloody Braun. An underhand DNA test conducted by Greg in the lab confirmed her direst suspicions – he was her dad. And her father was a murderer.

She started dating to forget. There was Paul, the City Engineer. This time, she had been the one using him instead of the other way around. That did not last long. Next was a seductive night club owner, Chris. She thought it was the real thing. It was the real thing, alright when she found him with a nubile brunette on his lap, tickling her tonsils and shoving his hands where they were lost under her clothing. More tears shed on her pillow at the expense of another useless man.

There was a spark of something with Warrick – then true to form, he ran off and married a woman he'd been seeing for a few weeks. A drive through wedding at Circus Circus. Classy. Her acceptance of the situation was covered by two sentences,

'You know that what makes a fantasy great is the possibility that it might come true. And when you lose that possibility, it just kinda sucks.'

Then came Adam Novak. A scumbag of a lawyer. She craved the physical contact. She got it. A fat lip caused by a car door and the creep stalking her out at her home. She tried to tell Grissom what she was feeling,

'What is wrong with craving a little human contact?'

'That's why I never go out,' he simply responded, before cornering the lab and leaving her to her needs.

Grissom was an enigma. He was never physical with her, well, not in the way she wanted him to be. Yes, he told her things he never told anyone before. He had that much trust in her. Yes, they went to movies together and he cooked for her at his house. He was a very private man and didn't like having other human beings in his refuge. But he always accepted her presence with a smile. He had always been there for her. Yes, they bumped shoulders as they walked in the hallway, he put his hand on her lower back when he led her somewhere, he'd covered her body with his to protect her as bombs and bullets flew around their ears. She visited him at the hospital – looking how vulnerable and scared he was in his hospital gown, taking in her own private show as we shambled down the corridor to the operating theatre.

He even flirted with her and had that special smile just for her. But that was it. God, how she wanted to be with him in a closer relationship. Much closer. He was her cerebral sparring partner. She flirted, she joked, she worked with him on a human animal roadkill case. She admitted she liked hairy chests. She looked at him to gage the response. Just a little red flush of embarrassment. Nothing more. Maybe he didn't have a hairy chest? She could only wonder.

He did like her tush though. He openly admitted that in a bar one night. His eyes were alight with mischief and his smile was so, so cocky when she nearly choked on her drink... Said he'd missed it. Unfortunately, Brass ruined that moment when he joined them. And no follow up came.

He was her best friend, nothing more. Her shoulder. Her rock. He loved her and she him in their own, unique, platonic ways. He never saw her as weak. A weak woman. She was determined to live up to that. She showed no more emotion in front of him… until Keppler…

On his return from sabbatical, she needed him more than ever. She wasn't in love with Keppler. No, not by any means. But there was something maverick about him. Something she recognised in herself – not by the book as she had been taught, but throwing the book right out of the window and doing whatever it took to get the bad guy. Forensics by instinct. It hit a nerve.

She watched Keppler's final moments, tears in her eyes, free falling down her face. Then she felt an arm across her shoulders, and a gentle, 'Come on,' whispered in her ear. She turned to look up, right into the face of Gil Grissom. No wink, no smile, just something she hadn't seen in him for a long time… emotion and empathy. He escorted her across the car park of the cheap motel and into his people carrier. He let her cry all the way back to the Crime Lab. He merely extended his hand to hold hers over the console. Not a word was expressed between them.

As law enforcement officers approached her crumbling frame, Grissom shook his head at their questions and dispatched Nick and Warrick to find Keppler's mobile in Henderson. He guided her through his office door. He closed it and turned to her. He opened his arms and she fell into them, sobbing. He closed his arms around her and held her close.

It was the most intimate moment that either CSI could possibly have shared together...


	3. Hopelessly Devoted To You

_**AN – **__**This has taken a while to complete as I'm British, and we have only just had 'Meet Market' and 'Law of Gravity' in the last couple of weeks and I had to fit finishing this off in between real life – getting students ready for exams, marking coursework etc. Urgh!**_

_**I am spoiler free and so don't know how this has been resolved in the US, or even if it has been. Sorry if this is spoiled, I didn't know that it was. If this is not the way it resolves, then YAY!**_

_**Disclaimers – I owe neither **__**CSI**__**, though I am saving up to buy it, or **__**Grease**__**. But it has been fun pretending I do… even if it's for only an hour!**_

**HOPELESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU**

_Guess mine is not the first heart broken,  
My eyes are not the first to cry _

_I'm not the first to know,  
There's just no gettin' over you  
Hello, I'm just a fool who's willing _

_To sit around and wait for you  
But baby can't you see, _

_There's nothin' else for me to do, _

_I'm hopelessly devoted to you.  
_

He'd sent her the cocoon. It was symbolic. From out of the enclosed, secretive and safe environment, a beautiful thing would be born, opening its wings and showing itself in its true colours for everyone to see and admire its beauty. It was his Sara. It was their love.

Grissom had missed her frantically while in Williams College. He missed the burning smell in the kitchen as she kept the toast under the grill too long, her complaining at the pile of ironing in the laundry basket, her foot prints in the snow beside his, her warmth under the cool sheets on a hot Vegas day. Her simply being there.

This was the downside to being away from Vegas. He had to get away from the lab. It was driving him quickly to the edge, pushing him to the point of no return. He had to clear some space in his over packed attic of a brain. He wanted to fill it not with Freud, Shakespeare, Latin bug names; violence, death and abuse – he wanted to fill it with memories of him and Sara to take with him into retirement and old age.

He had always been the reticent one. Determined to keep his fantasies private. To keep Sara close to his chest. Keep their intimacy for their knowledge only. Delighting in their explorations of each other – body and soul. Being an only child, he had never learned to share. And when it came to Sara he had never wanted to share her. And now, because of his own stupidity and desire not to be hurt, he had hurt her once more. Her final send off spoke more than any words or physical actions.

'See you when you get back…

How Grissom had ruminated over those words. In his mind's eye he played the moment repeatedly over and over. He analysed her movements. She pulled her arms across herself, creating a barrier between them. She was imprisoning her emotions from him, receding back into a world of unrequited love, loneliness and a desire to be loved by a man who was clearly rejecting her. She didn't want him to see her pain at his decision. He considered how she couldn't make eye contact, not acknowledging his presence by focusing on the contents of her locker.

'I'll miss you…'

From a brain that knew more words than the Oxford English Dictionary, the man who Catherine said had a haiku for every occasion, he just did not have the vocabulary to say it. The locker room was empty for God's sake! How could he not have said the words she desperately wanted to hear to carry her until their reunion? As he left the lab for the last time, he was kicking himself for breaking the strongest woman he had ever known and for his cowardice over eight tiny letters in the English language.

Was it any wonder she had not contacted him? He did not feel brave enough after his departure to make the leap of faith and phone her. So, while walking around his new habitat, he found the perfect way to break the ice. The cocoon was a metaphor. Sara knew him enough to be able to decipher it. He could envisage her, sitting down with the brown box he'd mailed her a week previously. She would have to open it somewhere quiet. His office? He'd left her a key. The locker room? He'd mailed it to the lab as he knew someone would be there to sign for it. He didn't want to wake her up if the postman called during her sleeping, daylight hours. A risky tactic, he knew, but he wanted to take care of her, despite the miles between them.

If he closed his eyes, he could see her, breaking the seal with her army knife from her key fob, slashing through the plastic tape. Her fingers prizing open the cardboard flaps, reaching inside, touching the crushed paper he'd put in to buffer the cocoon in transit, releasing all the kisses he had sealed up in it for her.

He broke into a smile as he focused once more on her picking the twig out of the box and holding it up, closely inspecting it like a piece of evidence. He thought she would grin at that, and sigh his name in her head. _So Grissom_, he could hear in her thinking. And then… And then… what?

A frown burrowed into his forehead as he mentally beat himself up for not putting a note in there. He knew she would look for one. Who sends a gift without a sentiment? He learned that when a pushy florist demanded one for the plant he'd sent Sara, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She wanted to hear the words. All he'd managed was a paltry, 'I'll miss you.' It didn't even come close. She wanted more. He had to do something. He didn't have the right words, but he knew a man who did.

Pouring himself a glass of his favourite single malt, he emptied his pockets of coins, tissues, his mobile phone and found what he was looking for. It had once been said that the pen is mightier than the sword. To cut through her doubts, he needed to cleave through them once and for all.

He reached up for a leather bound first edition on the bookshelves. There really was a first class library on campus at Williams. He flicked through the index until he found the page he wanted. His eyes wandered over the words, a smirk forming over his shaggy, bearded face. Yes. That was the one.

Going to the desk, he reached in the top drawer for a piece of finest stationery. He sipped from his glass and uncapped his pen. He was going to do this. He was going to show her he could say what she wanted to hear. He took a deep breath and committed his pen, his soul, his life, to the paper.

Walden Pond Research Centre

Concord

MA

01742 – 4511

Sara,

Our parting was awkward. I don't know why I find it so difficult to express my feelings for you. Even though we are far apart, I can see you as clearly as vividly as if you were here with me. I said, 'I'll miss you,' and I do. If I can't say what I want to say, I know someone who can, better than I. It's from Shakespeare's Sonnet #47,

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,  
And each doth good turns now unto the other:  
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,  
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,  
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,  
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;  
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,  
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:  
So, either by thy picture or my love,  
Thy self away, art present still with me;  
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,  
And I am still with them, and they with thee;  
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight  
Awakes my heart, to heart's and eyes' delight.

You are here, with me, always. Whether physically, spiritually or mentally. I love you, Sara. I am hopelessly in love with you. But I am appalling at expressing it. Please bear with me while I find the strength within myself to tell you.

Upon my return, I will put everything right. I promise you.

With all my love, and I do mean all my love,

Gil.

He put his pen down and picked up the paper. He read it back to himself. He nodded his approval. He'd done it. He'd said it. He loved her. He ran his hand through his errant curly hair as he opened the drawer again, for matching envelope. He took another sip of his whiskey before picking up his pen again. He began on the envelope,

Sara Sidle

1623 West…

But something stopped him. He was physically incapable of writing the rest of her address. His emotional intelligence was putting up a fight. But he would not be beaten.

The letter was good, he surmised, but not good enough. He didn't want her to read it. He knew she didn't want to read it. She wanted to hear it, as he held her close. He vowed, then and there, that the letter would not be posted. He would be home in a week's time. He would give it to her in person, at their reunion. No, no he wouldn't. He would tell her. Actually say the words while looking at her.

He had seven days.

Seven days to learn the script that would shape the rest of his life.

_**AN2 – the next chapter was a lot of fun to write, why, it's Greased Lightening! Lol! What happened to Nick's car at the end of Rashomama? The boys get to play with their toys!**_


	4. Greased Lightnin

**AN – Hello! Once again, sorry this has taken such a time to get put on here. Life is hectic! But I hope this makes up for it. I had a bit of a giggle with this chapter… boys and their toys… it had to happen. A GSR free chapter. Some will like, some won't. I just hope it raises a smile.**

**Spoilers for Rashomama – 6x21 or something like that? Not good with numbers.**

**CSI and Grease are not mine, but it's my birthday on Friday, so maybe I could have Grissom for 24 hours? Please? I won't break him! Much ;-)**

**Since it's my birthday, a little review would go down well. Ta ever so. Enjoy!**

**CSI BF xxx**

**GREASED LIGHTNIN'**

_**Well this car **__**is automatic, **_

_**Systematic**___

_**hyyyyydromatic!**__**-  
Why, it could be Greased Lightnin'!**_

_**  
We'll get some overhead lifters and four barrel quads, oh yeah  
Keep talkin', whoah keep talkin'!**_

_**  
Fuel injection cut off and chrome plated rods, oh yeah  
I'll get her ready, I need to get her ready!**_

_**  
With a four-speed on the floor, they'll be waitin' at the door  
You know that ain't shit when we'll be gettin' lots of tit**__** in  
Greased Lightnin'  
**_

'Hey Pimp, how d'ya like your new ride!' smirked Jim Brass, as the spray painted, heinous, monstrosity, which used to be Nick Stokes' beautiful, sleek, black truck, barrelled into the CSI garage.

Nick took one look and fought the urge to cry. His strong, masculine, all American jaw crashed to the floor as he stared open mouthed at his… his…

'Aw, man, that ain't funny…' he managed. He looked to Catherine for support. He found none.

'Well, it is a little funny,' she smiled, suppressing the giggles threatening to burst from her lips.

Nick put his hands on hips and looked down at the floor, shaking his head. Today was going from bad to worse. First all his evidence had been stolen along with his vehicle. He'd then been bawled out by the Under Sheriff at a road side diner, he'd had to listen to Sara's negative perspectives on marriage, Greg's grossly exaggerated, almost film noir perceptions of the wedding from hell, then he'd had to wait HOURS for Internal Affairs to turn up and now he could smell his body odour chasing him down the lab corridors. Finally to cap it all off - this…

He looked up at his truck as he heard Brass and Cath disappear into the CSI building in fits of laughter. The recovery of his truck would not remain a secret in the Crime Lab much longer if they had their way. Nick Stokes had never been so down cast.

Warrick Brown ambled into the garage, scarcely hiding his delight at what his well trained eyes were seeing.

'Whoa, man! Who did you piss off today?'

'Don't…' Nick managed as a threat. 'My pride and joy, War, man… look at it! I can't drive round Vegas in… in…'

'A shaggin' wagon?' Warrick grinned.

Nick was forced to raise a smile. 'Don't you start… This is gonna cost me a buck or two to get fixed. I somehow don't think the city will finance a respray.'

'I was gonna take Tina out this weekend, but I guess I can put her off and help you fix this thing up,' conceded Warrick, realizing he had just put himself on the couch for another week with that decision. 'A man can't drive round Sin City in that without getting arrested for pimping out…'

'Is Greggo free too?' enquired Nick, his mood beginning to lighten. 'He's always fixing the heaps of crap he drives.'

'I think you mean my classic cars,' grinned Greg, as he caught sight of the lurid images engrained on the truck door. 'Wow, she's a big girl…' he joked, pulling his hands two foot from his chest to emphasise her talents.

'That's what I said, classic crap you drive,' laughed Nick, swatting Greg's hands down. 'You still got the paint spray stuff in your garage?'

'Certainly. I'm off this weekend. Shame Sara isn't. Very handy in a pair of overalls is our Sara.'

Greg's mind set off on one of its little wanderings. His eyes glassed over as vivid images of an overall wearing Sara, the buttons …pop… pop…. pop…. open at the neck revealing a tiny bikini top underneath, bent over a soapy, wet, car bonnet, rubbing her boobs…erm… sponges… over the bodywork in large, round, circular motions, looking up at him… grinning that seductive little smile… beckoning a wet finger in his direction…. him following… being stripped slowly and deliberately with sudsy hands…and pushed backwards onto the bonnet…

'In the gutter,' said Warrick, shaking his head at the filthy imagination of the young CSI.

Warrick would never allow himself to think of Sara that way. If she found him thinking of her like that, she would put him on his ass. No, he preferred to drift off to the womanly and curvaceous sights of Catherine Willows, her lithe body dripping in a white, wet tee shirt, wiping sweat from her eyes in the punishing Las Vegas sun, her breasts… wet and protruding proudly through the flimsy, soaking wet fabric… a slow motion wet dream – in every sense – as Warrick found himself reaching for some wet and dirty action…

'Hey! Guys! Come back to the room!' grinned Nick, snapping his fingers rapidly to gain their attention, fully aware of the destinations of his colleagues' imaginations.

'Hey, we could do a boys weekend thing,' shouted Greg excitedly. 'We could do the car up, have a little beer, then cruise the Strip looking for some lurvly ladies…'

'My truck is so not for you to go out sharking the ladies with, my man, but a boys weekend does sound kinda cool.' Nicky stood and thought for a brief moment. 'Should we invite Grissom?'

Each of the lab boys had a thought of a grimy Grissom, a little foam on the end of his beautifully crafted button nose, leaning seductively over the shiny metal of Nick's car, buffing up the bumpers in a sultry, slow movement, his tongue snaking out to moisten his lips, paying painstaking reverence to the job in hand, his overalls open to the waist, clearly demonstrating a lack of anything underneath them. Strong arms and powerful shoulders exposed alongside his chest as he swooped the sponge across the body work… woman sized, oily, filthy handprints on the ass of his overalls…

… Definitely a fantasy for the ladies, Nick concluded.

Greg's eyebrows shot up into his hairline, 'I thought we said BOYS weekend! It would be like mending a car with my dad. Besides, he's on shift with Sara and Catherine. He'll be getting a little lady action all of his own in the lab this weekend… a cozy little threesome…'

Once more, Greg's mind left the CSI garage… to Grissom's office… with the Graveyard Shift Supervisor himself sitting in his chair, opera divas screaming a painful sounding aria from his stereo system, his usually well presented grooming awry – his shirt unbuttoned, one, two, three hands roaming his naked pecs… Wait. Three hands? Each side of the chair, scantily clad Sara and Catherine – owning the hands between them – running them over his torso, his crooked grin all lopsided, his hands groping their butts, his hair ruffled; clearly after being raked through recently by a feminine finger or two… He looked pleased with himself and totally and thoroughly pounced on…

'Urghh, that doesn't even bear thinking about,' groaned Nick, fighting to stop himself losing his lunch. 'Ok, this weekend. Let's sort the car and take it from there. Thanks guys. I appreciate it.'

Both friends shrugged. An evil glint appeared in the eyes of the newest CSI in Las Vegas…

'You know something, Nicky my boy? This car could be… automatic…' chirped Greg.

'Systematic…' growled Warrick.

'Hydromatic…' added Greg.

'Why this car could be….'

'GREASED LIGHTENIN'…' they cried, as they ran laughing from the garage, chased by grinning Nick brandishing a tyre iron.

**AN2 – The Grissom fantasy? Mine! All mine! Rowrrrrr! Those overalls… that man can fill a pair rather nicely… FWOARRRRR! And backwards ball cap… I need to stop now… faints **


End file.
